


your soul is ill but you will not find a cure

by pallidiflora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28460763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallidiflora/pseuds/pallidiflora
Summary: Perhaps ironically, he'd look a lot like a man in the throes of religious ecstasy if not for the hard-on he's pressing down against his thigh.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 89





	your soul is ill but you will not find a cure

**Author's Note:**

> Happy new year, here's some self-indulgent Supernatural sex pollen fic! The consent is, as the tags imply, quite dubious, so proceed with that in mind. 
> 
> (Also, title is from Black Sabbath, naturally.)

_You have to get to the motel,_ Castiel had said. _Now._ White-knuckling the steering wheel, radio off—too distracting—Dean had replied _I know._

Now, practically wearing a rut into the linoleum of their motel kitchenette—someplace chintzy off I-80, with a grit-worn carpet, once red, and some of the direst flannelette sheets they've ever slept on—Cas says _let's just be rational about this._

He looks about as far from rational as possible: his hair is standing on end, his tie hangs in two limp strips to either side of his neck, his forehead shines with perspiration. Perhaps ironically, he'd look a lot like a man in the throes of religious ecstasy if not for the hard-on he's pressing down against his thigh. 

"There is nothing fucking rational about this, Cas," Dean says from the edge of his bed, elbows on knees. An errant lust-spell, or something like it, something powerful enough to fuck both him _and_ Cas up. His dick feels like a cinder block, as though it could do some real damage.

"There has to be some way." Cas sits next to Dean, a prim foot away; still, he can't help but squirm at the way the fabric of his pants shifts, exhaling slowly. Perhaps he thinks Dean won't notice. He does. He clenches his fists so hard his forearms ache. "Let's not…" 

He looks over at Dean. _Let's not do anything we'll regret_ is probably what he'd intended to say, but what comes out of him is another sigh, nearly a moan. His eyes dart from Dean's mouth to his hands to his lap, and then Dean—who has never grasped the concept of _not doing things he'll regret_ —is grabbing him by the collar at the same time as Cas surges forward, a hand on his knee. 

They bump lips and teeth, not really a kiss and hard enough Dean thinks he tastes blood, but if anything it spurs him on. He feels like a caveman with a hunk of raw meat, tearing at it with his bare hands—in something straight from the Harlequin playbook, he rips all the buttons off Cas's shirt. _Oh well, he can just mojo them back on later_ is probably what he'd think if he had the mental capacity. He would shrug and shake his head at himself— _what a little scamp, ain't I a stinker!_ Right now, looking at Cas—his bare skin, the dark suggestive line disappearing below his belt—it's like his brain is TV static, not the high pure kind that Cas once used to communicate but something stormy, low, discordant. Dean is on top of him now, Cas pushing Dean's khaki jacket off his shoulders, getting his fingers under the hem of his t-shirt, rolling his hips in little staccato movements like a dry-humping teenager afraid he'll get caught, and then—

"Wait, we can't," he breathes. "We shouldn't—" He inhales the skin at Dean's temple, can no doubt smell his sweat, the cheap hotel shampoo, makes a small _oh_ sound against the shell of his ear that makes Dean leak. 

"I know, I know—" And he does know, he knows they can't because Cas is his friend, and a man, and he has scarcely let his mind even wander there since he was around seventeen years old. Somewhere in the back of his fever-hot brain he can hear himself screaming. "I don't want to either," he lies, "but we have to—" 

As he says this he grinds down on him, his zipper painful against his cock; Cas moans raggedly, short nails scraping the close-shorn hairs at the back of Dean's neck.

"No," Cas whimpers lowly; the moment the word leaves his mouth he's licking the seam of Dean's jaw, lifting his hips again. Dean's cock throbs and he thinks _the spell, it's the spell, it's the goddamn spell, the word no does_ not _make your dick twitch_ —still, he has a moment of clarity then, the way people sometimes do mid-fuck, that he'll hate himself for it later, spell's fault or no. 

_Don't kiss him,_ Dean thinks, _not on the lips, just don't, it'll make it so much worse—_

But before he can stop himself his mouth is on Cas's, biting his top and then his bottom lip, licking against his teeth. He knows Cas can count the people he's kissed on one hand; Dean's never liked a prude, but something about the tender inexperience of Cas's tongue hits him palpably, a want almost nauseating in its intensity that makes him rut mindlessly against him like he's trying to bore through him.

"I need to fuck you," he hears himself say, mouthing the stubble on Cas's neck, "for god's _sake_ let me fuck you."

He feels Cas exhale against his forehead, his breath maddeningly hot, with a human smell—spit, tongue—so intimate, so primal it makes his dick _ache_. To think that Cas must feel the same—reduced to his body's most basic instincts, reduced to a sweating, salivating, gasping creature of flesh and blood and coarse dark hair—leaves him gritting his teeth on a groan that threatens to become a scream.

"I... I don't—" Cas stutters, hands smoothing down Dean's back, resting on his lower back and then, as though making his mind up, grabbing handfuls of his ass, pulling him closer, pressing against him from all sides as though trying to occupy the same space as him, as if anything less than total union was not to be borne. 

He removes one hand, draws Dean's face up to look him in the eye; his face is pale, eyebrows drawn. If Dean had the presence of mind, he'd think _fear_. 

"I..." The muscles in Cas's face slacken, his eyelids lower to half-mast. "...I want you." He shudders against him, legs shaking like a mystic having a fit. "I want you so badly, I want you inside me..."

 _Damn, pulled that one straight from Dear Penthouse, huh?_ That's what Dean would normally say to a line like that; right now he rasps _oh God, fu-uck_ and comes in his pants. Cas writhes a little, biting off a groan; his shaking legs still a little. Neither of them notice that a romance-novel simultaneous orgasm wasn't enough to interrupt the spell, wasn't enough to make them soft, too busy fumbling out of their pants. Then, kneeling between Cas's spread thighs, Dean, as if on autopilot, like watching himself through a TV screen, takes both their dicks in hand, tugs roughly, rocks against him. Castiel thrashes under him like it hurts, but gasps _Dean,_ cuts himself off with a shout as he comes again. One look at his face—scrunched up, sweaty, not porn-pretty but raw, real, all because of Dean's hand on him—pushes Dean over the edge a second time. 

Without thinking, Dean gathers up the come pooling in the hair below Cas's navel and slicks himself up, his cock still so hard it hurts, so hard he'd feel sick if he were in his right mind, a blunt instrument made for violence. Cas spreads his thighs further apart, shaking his head, panting _this is so…_ Wrong? Hot? All of the above? _Yeah,_ Dean breathes, and positions himself. 

Their come isn't quite slick enough, Cas's hole resisting the blunt pressure of the head of his cock; when finally, pushing insistently, he forces himself past the tight muscle inside, they both make a noise like they've been hit, unfeigned, inarticulate, indistinguishable from sounds of pain. 

"Oh fuck," Dean gasps, "oh fuck, oh my God, Jesus _fucking_ Christ, you're so fucking—" 

Cas gives him a look, stricken, almost, but then Dean moves inside him and—perhaps _because_ of the string of blasphemy and filthy language—he's rocked by another orgasm, silent this time; all he can do is cling to Dean's biceps, holding his breath, rotating his hips. When he opens his eyes again they're glazed with tears. Normally for Dean it'd be a point of pride to make someone come so hard they get teary—now he's torn, torn between _this is wrong, what is wrong with you, how can you want this, you're not even—_ repeating in his head, scratching the inside of his skull, and the lizard-brain desire to keep pounding until he's taken Castiel apart completely. 

"Fuck, Cas, this is gonna kill us," Dean manages, even as he drills into him with a brutal military pace, heedless of the fact that Cas just came.

"Yes," he says, and doesn't seem to know himself what he's saying yes to. He braces a hand on Dean's chest as if to push him away, at the same time digging his heels into his lower back. "No. Keep going. Don't stop."

He fucks him hard enough that the headboard slams the wall, which is such a seedy motel thing he'd laugh if he had the breath for it. Cas is letting out a near continual litany of noises, not the pay-per-view softcore moans you'd expect from a motel room but harsh, choked, as if ripped straight up from his stomach— _ah, ah, ah, ah_ — (It will occur to him later that their neighbours could probably hear everything, something he'd boast about usually; this time it'll make the back of his neck prickle with shame.)

Hands braced on the headboard, Cas pushes back against him and, without touching his cock, comes again. It's feeling Cas come on his cock that sends him a third time, squeezing his eyes so tight it sends up white sparks behind his eyelids, would be enough to give him a killer headache under normal circumstances. 

" _Oh,_ " Cas sobs, head lolling, grinding the back of his skull against the pillow, "I can't, I can't—" Dean knows he means more than just physically. 

"One more time," Dean gasps, "just one more time, I swear..."

One more time becomes two, becomes three. He thinks—as much as he is capable of thinking—that he really might die, that Sam will find him and Cas fucked to a bloody pulp. Just as his stomach turns on this imagery he finally, _finally_ knows it's over: it's not just a seeing-stars orgasm but one so hard he feels too big for his skin, lungs airless, each thrust reverberating through his whole body like he's punching a brick wall over and over again. Vaguely, he's aware that underneath him Castiel is digging his nails into his sides hard enough to bruise, to draw blood, clenching around him, feeling like he's not just milking him but sucking his soul out through his dick. Finally he can feel himself softening, slipping out; he tries not to let himself notice the slick, yielding open wetness of Cas's hole as it slowly leaks come— _his_ come, god, why hadn't they used a condom, it wasn't like Cas could give him some kind of heavenly STD or anything but it would've been less— (filthy? Intimate? It would've made it easier to pretend it was clinical, maybe, like a gloved jellied-up finger in a prostate exam.) 

The post-orgasm haze wears off almost immediately, leaving him weak, trembling, as though recovering from the flu. He feels like he might vomit, but that would be impolite; the room reeks of sex, a scent so thick it seems to have a weight—wet skin, recycled air, the burn-the-back-of-your-throat chlorine of semen. His whole body—his head, the backs of his legs, his dick, his balls—feels like it's been worked over with a baseball bat. They both lay frozen for a moment, panting into the muggy air; then the air conditioning grumbles to life, making them both jump. 

"Jesus," Dean starts, collapsing next to him (it's too close, too personal, like what he'd do with a lover—lie next to them, put their head on his chest, maybe fuck again later—but Cas is not a lover, he's not allowed to be) because his limbs will no longer support his weight. He closes his eyes, unable to bear even the sight of the cigarette-yellowed stucco ceiling. "Are you…" He has to catch his breath. "You okay?" 

"I'm fine," Cas replies, already rough voice now so hoarse it's barely above a whisper. He hauls himself into a sitting position, whole body shaking; perhaps sensing Dean pulling away, already clamming up like he always does ( _repress, repress, repress!_ he hears in his head, a voice not unlike Sam's) he's trying to drag himself to the other bed. His body doesn't seem to want to cooperate, so he sits there, swallowing over and over again, waiting to recover. It won't take long, not for him; already he's cleaned himself of any evidence. ( _Evidence_. As if it was a crime scene.) Dean isn't so lucky—he's grimy with sweat and come and spit, and more than that thinks he can feel a greasy film encasing his brain. He'd like to stick a brillo pad into his ear and scrub. 

"I'm, uh," he eventually says into the damp silence, "I'm gonna take a shower." 

Back turned to him, Cas says in a small voice, _we did what we had to do_ , as if apologizing to _him. Yeah,_ Dean says, like he's sure. For Dean, the only certainty—the only certainty he's ever had—is that he'll hate himself come tomorrow.


End file.
